


Scattered Ashes

by Laurencin



Category: Fire Emblem: Seisen no Keifu | Fire Emblem: Genealogy of the Holy War
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Explicit Consent, Gangbang, Hand Jobs, M/M, Porn with Feelings, arvis/travant doesn't even have a tag and ykw that makes perfect sense, haunted bj, i really hate thinking about medieval condoms soooo, this is an au where stds dont exist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-08-09 10:19:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16448000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laurencin/pseuds/Laurencin
Summary: The slutty, slutty adventures of Duke Arvis of Velthomer (and sometimes of Arvis, Emperor of Grannvale). Sometimes sad, always horny, buckle the fuck in





	1. arvis/sigurd: don't say that

**Author's Note:**

> Sigurd catches feelings. Arvis is harder to read.  
> This chapter is NSFW!

The Duke's hands - the hands that push his knees apart, gentle yet insistent - are deceptively strong. Sigurd is struck by the notion that, if these hands wished to overpower him, he would be at their mercy. But the man attached to them - he trusts him. Especially now, looking down into the Duke's crimson eyes, nestled between his thighs, waiting for permission to continue, Sigurd cannot imagine responding to this man with anything but a breathless, earnest  _yes._

And, gods above, is he glad he did. The Duke strips away Sigurd’s belts, pants, and smallclothes with practiced ease, and it’s mere moments before his lips - frequent participants in Sigurd’s dreams- are wrapped around his cock, sealed so tight his moans barely escape. It occurs to Sigurd that the ease with which Arvis lavishes attention on him can only be acquired through practice, and the thought of the man servicing anyone else fills him with a most uncharacteristic jealousy. He wraps his legs around Arvis, possessive, twisting fingers into crimson locks, pulling him close. His for now, at least; Arvis seems alright with this, keening around the member in his mouth, lust-glazed eyes locking with Sigurd’s as his head is pushed gently down onto the length.

The Duke’s lips on him - in any way - is hardly an unfamiliar sensation, but each time he is freshly staggered by it. With a breathy moan - put upon, Sigurd knows, as Arvis is perfectly capable of working in silence. A dramatic in every sense, he thinks, with undeniable fondness. With this sound, Arvis slides his lips along the prince’s cock, drinking him in, without so much as a flinch when the head hits the back of his throat. His eyes flutter closed as he focuses on the length in his mouth, swallowing around it, swathing him in almost unbearable warmth, tongue exploring what it can reach. At some point, Sigurd is not entirely sure when, Arvis had snaked his arms around Sigurd’s waist, where they now massaged the small of his back, warming, soothing, dare Sigurd say - almost loving, as they tried to calm Sigurd’s hips, which now stuttered and trembled with the effort of keeping still. He was close, so close already - and so he began tucking Arvis’ hair behind his ears. The man was adventurous, it was true, and his boundaries were few and far between - but the ones that remained were utterly non-negotiable. _Don't you dare get anything in my hair._ It was convenient, in a way; Sigurd needn’t gather his wits enough to warn Arvis verbally. He simply reached out a shuddering hand to push back those crimson locks he loved so dearly, allowing the hand to come to rest on the Duke’s jaw, and Arvis understood. With a muffled laugh, Arvis pulled himself off of Sigurd’s cock, dragging his tongue along the underside, slowly, sucking hard at the tip, a daring glimmer in his eyes as he slid them open once more to look Sigurd straight in the eye –

And Sigurd came, with a gasp and a firm tug on Arvis’ hair. Though the Duke’s tongue darted out to catch some of the seed - or, more likely, to catch the imminent mess - the sudden tug jerked his head back, and he instead caught Sigurd’s come with his chin, his neck, his necklace. Between panting breaths, the Duke laughed, hoarse, wiping his chin with his palm.

“You…” Arvis begins, inspecting himself, “you are a dastardly one, aren't you?”

“I’m so sorry,” Sigurd says, and his laugh is decidedly more sheepish. “You must know it was an accident.” And it was, of course, but Sigurd isn’t entirely sorry. Seeing Arvis marked so decisively as  _his_ is terribly thrilling. The Duke must recognise the insincerity, because as Sigurd pulls him up onto the bed, into his lap, he’s shaking his head.

“Oh, I’m certain,” he mumbles, leaning in for a kiss. Truth be told, Sigurd isn’t particularly excited about his own taste on Arvis’ lips; but, far more repulsive is the thought of declining a kiss from the Duke even once, and so Sigurd meets his lips eagerly. Swollen as they are, they are warmer and more plush than ever, and Sigurd can scarcely resist devouring him where he sits. And though Sigurd did not need a reminder, the Duke grinds into the kiss, pressing his arousal insistently into Sigurd’s thigh.

“I know,” Sigurd says, pushing the Duke’s tunic apart. “You’ve been so patient.”

By now, Sigurd can free Arvis’ straining cock one handed; his free hand trails down Arvis’ arm, finding his hand, knitting their fingers together. And he must be feeling indulgent, because the Duke allows this to happen; in fact, to Sigurd’s delight, he wraps his other arm around Sigurd’s shoulders, pressing their foreheads together. Sigurd decides not to question this moment of intimacy, and simply revels in it. Tilts his head, ever so slightly, to feel Arvis' shallow, gasping breaths against his lips as he strokes him to completion.

The Duke comes with little fanfare, losing his composure for but a moment when Sigurd catches his lip in his teeth, his softly chanted _yes_ -es giving way to a shout, of surprise more than anything, as he paints Sigurd’s stomach in thick, pearly tracks. He allows his weight to sag onto Sigurd's shoulders, but is careful not to let his clothing - rumpled as it is - touch the mess. 

When Arvis recovers enough to speak again, he clears his throat, and shoves Sigurd backward onto the bed with a firm push to the chest. “We’re not even, you know," he says, tapping his soiled necklace. Sigurd wonders, briefly, if this is why the Duke wears such a low cut. "You came dreadfully close to ruining my coat just then, and I don’t believe you’re sorry for a moment.”

His tone is sharp as ever, but there’s a glimmer in his eyes and a quirk on his lips that tell Sigurd he’s joking. Sigurd can feel that he’s smiling, too, but not in mirth; rather, looking up at Arvis, who still straddles him, crimson curls bouncing and cascading over his shoulders, down his chest, hanging haphazard over his face, Sigurd cannot imagine feeling more at ease. More satisfied. Even looking at him now, his perfect dishevelment owed entirely to the time they’d spent together, Sigurd can hardly believe how lucky he is to have such a creature care for him so.

“I love you,” Sigurd says, and it surprises them both. Arvis fixes him with a peculiar gaze, so much softer than the steely one he reserves for the public, scarlet eyes staring straight into him, searching him for – for something, though Sigurd knows not what. But he must have found it, because he leans forward, brushing still-swollen lips against Sigurd’s.

“Well,” he whispers, scarcely audible even in the silent room, “I believe you.” He presses a kiss to Sigurd’s lips, then, plying tongue easing his mouth open, and Sigurd has already forgotten that “I believe you” is not quite “I love you too.”

 


	2. arvis/sigurd/RR: the haunting of chalphy house

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In what he knows to be his final days, Arvis takes stock of the situation in Chalphy. The Ritter comfort their liege.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> old man gangbang. nsfw from the halfway mark on

There were no mirrors in castle Chalphy, not anymore, but even without them Arvis found himself nagged by the suspicion that he looked as bedraggled as he felt. It was an image he no longer cared to combat; his robes, once a startling crimson, were faded by years of collected dust, worn thin and tattering about the hem, duller now than the joyless pallor of his cheeks. The dishevelment suited him, he felt; the emperor of a dying empire ought look the part. Thus, he settled into it as one might recline upon a bed from which they never intended to rise. Julia, bless her, had all but confirmed it in the scant few moments they’d shared together, before her demon brother had stolen her away once more. Her eyes had always been sad - she’d inherited that from her uncle - but when she gazed upon him then, there was a grief in them that brought bile to his throat, threatened to bring him to tears as well.

Gods, he had never deserved her. He had always suspected as much, but he knew it now. It was thoughts like these that propelled him through the castle halls, desperate for distraction, deluded enough, temporarily, to believe he could outrun his own thoughts if he simply moved around enough.

Thus did he wander, devoid of particular purpose; when he found himself in the dining hall, he made himself sit, and gaze down the length of the dining table. This was where his wanderings always brought him, sooner or later. To think about the family that ought to be here now. He would be seeing the son for the first time soon; the reports claimed he was the spitting image of his father, but people had said that of Arvis, too, and he had always fancied himself more his mother's son. Perhaps young Seliph was the same way. 

He wasn't entirely sure which would be worse.

“My Lord.”

The voice startled him out of his daydream. “Hmm?” He didn't need to look toward the voice to identify it; there was but a small retinue who still felt the need to refer to him so respectfully, and of those, only one who would seek him out explicitly.

“Have you any orders?”

“…no. The liberation army won’t be upon us for weeks yet.” Indeed, they had barely crested the southern mountain range; staggering as their progress had been, it simply wasn’t possible to cross the river from their position in much under a month. In the meantime, “tell the Ritter to finish whatever letters they wish to pen. I won’t be able to send messengers much longer.” This, of course, was what made the wait for Seliph’s arrival so torturous; there was no leaving castle Chalphy without the infernal child’s knowledge, and he - it - would abide no departures. It was easy to surmise that Arvis and his dwindling supporters were to die here. There was no room for dissenters in the Loptous empire, and with the emperor's political power long expired, he knew as well as his son’s keeper that his usefulness had died with it. The last - and least - he could do for the Roten Ritter, after decades of service, was help them send their farewells to whatever family survived them.

“They’ve already made their preparations, my lord. The envoy will leave at dawn, barring your interruption.” Arvis acknowledged the report with a sigh, directing his efforts instead to ignoring the fingers carefully tracing his scalp, combing through bedraggled hair. Even so, he was doing a terrible job of it.

"Then leave he shall. I can't imagine anything worthwhile will come up in the next few hours."

At this, the Ritter's general gripped the arm of Arvis' chair, and pulled it out to face him. Arvis couldn't be bothered to feign indignation, and simply raised an eyebrow as the man crouched down before him.

“My lord,” the general began, gently squeezing the emperor's thighs, "it's not too late, you must know. You can flee with the envoy tomorrow, if we disguise you. You don't--"  
  


"Enough." Arvis' tone was perhaps more curt than he wished, but he had long grown tired of this conversation. "You know as well as I that there's not a thing that could keep the little demon from me. If I have the luxury of choice, I'd much prefer to die on the blades of the liberation army." Besides, there was still the matter of Palmark, of the children in his care. 

The general sighed. Arvis suspected he had known at the outset how this conversation would go. "You were always so stubborn, my Lord." Arvis found himself very suddenly aware of footsteps resounding through the halls. "If you insist on living out your final days with us," the general continued, easing the emperor's knees apart, "you must allow us to make them more enjoyable for you."

Arvis clapped his legs shut. Tried to, anyway; the general caught them by the knees, and held them in place. "Are you--" Arvis' eyes fluttered shut, a deep crease emerging on his brow. "Have you entirely lost your mind?"

"All due respect, my Lord, have you? This is hardly a new occurrence."

"Unbelievable." Brow no less furrowed, Arvis opened his eyes to scowl down at the general, whose expression remained impressively neutral. The emperor sighed. "I'm familiar with my past... dalliances, thank you. But this is hardly an appropriate time or place. Can you not hear--"

"The Ritter approaching, yes. I must admit, my Lord, no small amount of planning has gone into this moment; we wanted this to be perfect for you." 

"You can't--" Arvis squirmed as the general pressed a kiss to the inside of his thigh. "I don't deserve this. Not after--"

“Then perhaps it would be easier to think of this as a favour to us, rather than from us unto you.” 

Arvis hardly needed genuine convincing, and he hated it. Hated that, despite his protests, his cock still strained and ached against his trousers, hated that he didn't care who this was for anymore, hated how badly he wanted to be– wanted to be–

The general derailed his thoughts with a pair of lips pressed to his cock, massaging through layers of cotton, distracting him from the fingers fast at work on his belts. “There has been little as painful to us as watching your fall, my lord, while we could do so little to prevent it. Allow us to offer you this one last comfort.”

No sooner had the general relieved him of his trousers than a second set of hands looped around the emperor from behind, sliding his robes off his shoulders, exposing them to desperate, sucking kisses. Arvis had swiftly lost track of how many of the Ritter now beset him, though he scarcely cared; how could he, when their practiced hands and eager lips so skilfully worshipped the body they had freshly exposed, careful to leave no skin untouched. Long having lost interest in looking at his own body, decrepit and defiled as it was, the emperor squeezed his eyes shut, hoping the Ritter would simply think him lost to ecstasy. How he wished this were the case. At least, with his eyes closed, such a thing would be easier.

Without the aid of his eyes, he was reliant entirely upon the sensation around him, and whatever accompanying thoughts his dreadful mind - a long-established foe by now - deigned to concoct for him. It took mere seconds to ascribe the sensation of hands on his hips, tracing little circles into his skin, the kissing along the inside of his thigh, the cheek teasingly brushing against his exposed cock, to a certain blue-haired man. The recognition pulled a weary groan from the emperor, who by now was exhausted by the spectre of the late heir; but the individual between his thighs, who ever they truly were, took this as some manner of encouragement. With a distinctly Chalphy laugh, the person beneath him finally (finally) took hold of him, pressing a frustratingly gentle kiss to the head of his cock before taking it inside. Unwilling to persist in the delusion that the prince had risen from the grave simply to suck him off, Arvis forced his eyes back open.

He could’ve puked.

The rest of the Roten Ritter still surrounded him, yes, and he could see now that his idle hands had been put to use. But beneath him still, with longing in his eyes and his lips pulled sloppily over a cock he had still never quite learned to handle, was Sigurd of Chalphy.

So this is what I’ve become, then, Arvis thought, absently tilting his head, exposing himself to the hungry assault of one of the Ritter. He didn’t care. All he could see, all he could feel, was Sigurd, who sat back and drank him in like a parched animal. Arvis couldn’t tell if it was the guilt, the touch deprivation, the crippling loneliness, which beset him with this horrific vision, and he imagined it didn't much matter. Something in him had snapped under the weight of his grief, and this was simply the evidence of it. Freeing one of his hands from the Ritter, Arvis tentatively grasped the back of “Sigurd”’s head. If he was going to lose his mind entirely, he thought, he might as well enjoy it. The burgeoning madness.

An experimental roll of his hips drew a heady moan from the man beneath him, sent dark lashes fluttering. “Sigurd” nodded around him, a gagged “Mm-hmm” offered alongside, and Arvis cast aside his lingering trepidation. The man beneath him was not Sigurd. Fine. He could no longer remember who they were. Fine. What mattered was that they wanted him, and that was all he really needed. He freed his other hand, ignoring a sharp huff of indignation from somewhere above him, and gripped the vision’s head, rough, needy, desperate. His next thrust came sharper, deeper, and confirmed for him that this could not possibly be prince Chalphy; Sigurd had never quite gotten the hang of having his face fucked, always got a little tense, took a few thrusts to get his teeth out of the way. None of that here; no, this Sigurd remained perfectly slackjawed, his joy at being used plain by the way he moaned around the cock in his mouth, the way his eyes rolled back, swallowed so perfectly in time with every thrust even as they came faster, hopelessly erratic, chanting the name of the only person it cannot possibly be–

The emperor comes, hard, with a shout that startles him awake.

Drenched in sweat, heart still racing, Arvis finds himself staring at his bedroom ceiling. Silk sheets, unbearably damp, cling to his skin. Hes’s going to have to clean them. Might just burn them. He drags a weary hand down his face, willing himself to come down from the high.

Pathetic.

Absolutely pathetic.


	3. travant/arvis: unstoppable top meets immovable bottom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> travant/arvis because i've lost control of my life  
> it's nsfw. again. i'm not sorry. also travant uses some vaguely infantilizing language, but they're both in their 20s; travant's just a bitch

“Do you always look so perfectly miserable when you’ve got half a hand up your ass, or is it me?”

“Certainly you. Here I was, so pleased you’d finally decided to shut your mouth and get to work, and you’ve ruined it all over again.”

This was not entirely true. In reality, Arvis had been thinking about what a _shame_ it was that they could absolutely never do this again, because King Travant’s fingers, rough and calloused as they were from a lifetime of labour, felt so good, so _fucking_ good inside him, he truly and earnestly considered simply stealing the entire arm. But that was a tad macabre.

The truth at the heart of the statement was that every time Travant opened his mouth, some ridiculous insult tumbled out and Arvis found himself on the cusp of putting his foot through the King’s sternum. Travant could probably see this fact in the furrow of the Duke’s brow; regardless, he found this all terribly amusing.

“Lucky for you,” Travant said, crooking his fingers sharply, pulling a startled cry from the Duke, “I’m not gonna take that too personally. I know how it is.” That look was starting to creep across his features again. The one that told Arvis he’d just decided to say something completely dreadful. As if preparing an insurance policy, Travant took this moment to slide a third finger in, and let his thrusting fingers settle into a rhythm before beginning to speak again. “You can’t help the things that come out of your mouth when you’re like this. When you need it so goddamn bad, and you can’t quite get there.” The King’s other hand, which had been resting idle under Arvis’ head, now slid down through crimson locks to squeeze gently at either side of the Duke’s throat. Not asphyxiating, but dizzying; Travant was leaning closer, ever closer, and Arvis could feel his next words ghost across his face. “So you snap and snarl at anything that gets in your way. And you grind into anything that’ll touch you. Like a bitch in heat, you are.”

“You…” Arvis had struggled to even begin the threat, and Travant cut it off entirely with a particularly pointed thrust of his fingers.

“What, you want me to stop? Because I’ve got better things to do today than fuck some bourgeoisie brat.”

“No,” Arvis snapped, much too fast. Travant was smiling, again, and Arvis wanted so badly to kick him in the neck. Again. “I want you to stop running your mouth and get on with it.”

“Gonna have to ask nicer than that, brat.”

“PLEASE get on with it.”

“You know what I want to hear.” Still, Travant withdrew his fingers, and pushed himself off the bed. Taking hold of Arvis’ ankles, he yanked the Duke to the edge of the mattress. “And, unlike you, I’m willing to wait for it.”

Arvis felt his brow furrowing again, and his eyes fluttered shut to save himself the frustration of looking into Travant’s face as he spoke. “Travant.”

“Brat.” Unbelievable.

“Please fuck me.”

“Because?” Mocking as his tone was, Travant still took his cock in hand, holding it level with Arvis’ hole. Rationally, Arvis knew that Travant was toying with him; he could feel the gentle twitch at his entrance, could see the glaze that had settled over the King’s gaze; knew it all meant that Travant needed this as badly as he did. But the desperation, the need to be filled, to feel someone in and around him, won out as it always did, and he played along. It would just be this once, after all.

“Because I need this. I need you.” Arvis wrapped his legs around Travant’s waist, pulling him in. “Please.”

“See, now why couldn’t you be that sweet the whole time?” Arvis would have prepared a retort, but a sharp snap of Travant’s hips knocked the air from his lungs and the words from his tongue. Fittingly, for such a rough man, Travant’s thrusts came fast and hard; Arvis found himself very grateful for the bruising grip the king had on his hips, as otherwise he wasn’t certain he could have kept them steady at this pace. Not to say that this was an issue; on the contrary, this was exactly what he had hoped for when he had pulled the king aside that night, invited him to chat privately. Let his hands linger ever so slightly too long on his arms.

“Watch yourself,” Travant grunted; a warning, offered too late and too vague. The king’s grip shifted suddenly to the duke’s knees, and with a bodily heave shoved them into the mattress at either side of the duke’s head. This provided entirely more leverage than a man of his strength needed, but Arvis wasn’t inclined to complain; not with the king so deep inside, filling him so perfectly, fucking him into the mattress as though he were trying to buckle the entire bed.

Though Travant muffled himself in Arvis’ nape, teeth clamped into the soft skin of his throat, Arvis could hear his growls - which they must be called, too guttural, too carnal for any other term - coming faster, lower, rumbling against his neck. Travant must have sensed he was going to remark on his neglect, because he released one of Arvis’ legs, turning his impressive grip on the arousal between them. As before, there was little warning; just an insistent grip and a ferocious tempo as the king jacked him off, hand stuttering and shaking in time with his hips.

“Gods,” Travant breathed against him, teeth scraping against the duke’s skin, “the sounds you make…”

Arvis hadn’t entirely realized how vocal he had been, but he was too far gone to care; he acknowledged the king’s words with a decidedly more theatrical moan into Travant’s hair. He was so close, he knew, and wanted so badly to scrape a reminder of this moment into the king’s back, lost as it would be among the myriad other scars – but pinned as he was, all he could manage was to knot his hands into the sheets. Cling to them for dear life as Travant drove into him, so deep and so hard the duke could feel the hard edges of the king’s hip bones dig into the backs of his thighs with each thrust, the hand on his cock stroking faster, squeezing at the tip just as he hit that spot inside that made the duke see stars—

The duke came with a strangled shout, unable to fully realize the sound; indeed, he wasn’t able to do much of anything but exist in the afterglow. Distantly, he was aware of Travant growling into his neck, sinking his teeth in harshly as he came inside, riding out his own orgasm rather slowly. As he came down, he peeled himself off of the duke’s throat, licking a possessive stripe over whatever damage had been done there. When he had gathered himself well enough to unfold the duke and pull himself out – mercifully gingerly – he did so with a chuckle.

“Bet you don’t get anything like that from the Chalphy whelp, huh?”

…Certainly never again.


	4. arvisig: a lesson in subtlety

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah this is just a straight nsfw collection now. arvisig, first meeting, sig is a disaster bi outside his frat boy safe space. 
> 
> alcohol mentions if you're sensitive to that

The young emperor’s education had begun rather hastily following the dramatic deaths of Duke and Duchess Velthomer; the result was a relentlessly competent – if intimidating – ruler. This reputation suited Arvis just fine; better to keep the vultures of the Grannvalean court at a safe distance, lest they catch so much as a whiff of weakness. Even as he poured champagne into his guest’s glasses, he simmered in disgust, unable to reconcile these creatures of want with the crusaders to whom they owed their fortune.

Present company included, of course.

Dukes Lombard and Reptor had been vying for his attention all evening, drawn to him as moths to the dancing flame of promised power. Arvis smiled to himself, touching his champagne flute to his lips. _How disgusting_. The pair could hardly control their own families, let alone countries, and still they craved more. As he raked his eyes over the crowd, Arvis found himself scarcely able to identify a presence that infuriated him more than theirs – a formidable feat, given the dregs assembled here. Still, they were eager, and their mindless ambition rendered them malleable; a coveted trait among would-be allies. This was the only thing Arvis allowed himself to consider; he had long since given up the hope of finding an ally he respected. Would help, in the long run, when it came time to cut ties. He searched, instead, for a particular face, rumored to be in the crowd.

Through the throng of revelers, he caught an unfamiliar eye, aglimmer with a smile so warm, Arvis could not help but return it. The young man it belonged to was draped in deep blue finery, and held fast to Lord Byron’s side. The heir of Chalphy, Arvis surmised; he was finally making his public debut. Lordlings were not an uncommon sight at these sorts of events, but Byron’s son had carefully avoided them until now. Probably, Arvis imagined, a result of Byron’s advancing age. The Lord Chalphy was approaching his sixties, and his only son was trained for naught but war; moreover, there weren’t even whispers of a potential wife, which must have driven the housewives of Chalphy absolutely mad. All of this rendered Byron’s son something of an enigma, politically speaking.

“--Eh, Arvis?”

“I don’t imagine he’s heard a word we’ve said.”

“That’s not much like him, is it?”

…Ah. He had trusted the pair to carry on the conversation without him; his mistake. “My apologies. Say, has Lord Byron brought his son along?”

“Ah, yes. Acclimatizing him to courtly affairs. I considered doing the same with Lex, but, well. You know what they say about polishing dirt.” Eyes now trained on the heir, Lombard took a sip of his champagne, twisting a distasteful lip. “I suppose young Sigurd is going to be taking after his dear father, planting his nose firmly up Prince Kurth’s ar—“

“Quite,” Arvis interrupted, earning a derisive quirk of Lombard’s brow. He ignored it, already carving his way through the crowd. Lombard was already firmly in Arvis’ pocket; couldn’t afford not to be, with a mouth like his. Their relationship, so to speak, could withstand a snubbing. Lord Byron’s son, on the other hand, represented a vulnerable sector in Arvis’ apparent understanding of the landscape, one that needed patching as soon as possible. It was with this in mind that Arvis planted himself before the younger lord and his father, removing crimson locks from his eyes with a gentle toss of his head.

“Lord Byron! A pleasure, as always.” Arvis extended a hand to the Lord, and Byron met his greeting with a wide smile and a firm shake, gesturing toward the crowded ballroom with his free hand.

“Please! The pleasure is ours. To be honest, I hadn’t expected to see you at all tonight.”

“Whyever not?”

Byron let out a laugh at this, that deep, hearty laugh that wracked his entire frame; however funny the statement wasn’t, Arvis couldn’t imagine it was possible to fake. “Well! What’s a man of your age want to do with me? I imagined you’d spend the evening taking in the sights, so to speak.”

Ah. “Lord Byron, you’ve known me entirely too long to suspect me of philandering.”

“On the contrary, it is _because_ I’ve known you so long. Entirely too long, in fact, to have gone without meeting my son.” Byron clapped his son on the back, pushing him into the conversation. “Introduce yourself, would you?”

“Of course,” the young man said, and though his voice remained steady, the growing pink tinge on the tips of his ears betrayed his discomfort. He must have sensed this, because he took a moment to shake his hair out, hiding the evidence under a mop of cobalt blue. “I am Sigurd of Chalphy. It’s an honor to meet you at last.”

Arvis took the hand offered to him, casting a suspicious glance at Byron. “At last, you say?”

“Indeed. My father talks about you quite a bit, actually.”

“All good things, I hope?”

Sigurd parted his lips to speak, but Byron was quicker on the draw. “Of course! I’m always telling him about your endeavours. An absolute demon in the senate, this one!” Eyes twinkling, Byron had turned towards his son, apparently ready to recount some tale or another again – but Sigurd had shushed him, with a mumbled “Father, _please…”_

Arvis clapped his hands together, hoping to draw some of the attention away from the young Lord. “Ah-hah, so that’s why you’ve brought him along, is it? You think he stands to learn from me, hmm?”

“To be honest, I was actually hoping he would take the time to get to know some of the women of the court – but for the time being, you two seem to share that aversion.”

“Well, there’s nothing wrong with focusing on personal growth first, I should think.” Arvis gave Sigurd a gentle tap on the arm. “We’ll make a charmer out of him, yet.”

“So you’ll take some time to talk to the boy?”

“If you think I have anything to offer him, then gladly.”

“I truly do. He has a lot to learn, I think, and – well, pardon me for saying so, but you’ve done remarkably well for yourself. Considering your father’s reputation, it’s near miraculous that you’ve managed to rehabilitate the Velthomer name. And at such a young age…” Byron paused a moment, regarding Arvis carefully. Sigurd, who had been watching his father, turned to face Arvis properly. His ears had coloured considerably, listening to his father lavish the man before him in praise. “Well. I suppose I can’t fault you for putting other matters to the side, as it were.”

It was no wonder, really, that Lombard and Reptor so loathed house Chalphy; their earnest nature must be incomprehensible to men like them. To Arvis, however, an honest ego-stroking was damn near refreshing. “Goodness, Lord Byron,” he laughed. “Am I to be Sigurd’s tutor, or his step-mother?”

“If you only knew, Lord Arvis!” Sigurd chimed in, perhaps too quickly for his father’s liking. “All the way here, you were all Father could talk about. He’s quite taken with you.”

“Yes, well, if we’ve all had enough of laughing at my expense,” Lord Byron said, haughty tone betrayed by the smile still lighting his face, “I’ll leave you both to it, hmm?” As Byron made his way back into the party proper, Arvis motioned toward the staircase at the North end of the ballroom.

“Shall we?”

With a hand on Sigurd’s back, Arvis led him up the stairs, and through the doors to the balcony.

As Arvis closed the doors behind them, locking them away from the oppressive din of the crowd, Sigurd heaved a sigh. “I must thank you, Lord Arvis. It’s unfair of my father to thrust this upon you, but…” Resting his free hand on the guard rails, the heir took a sip from his glass before continuing. “…He worries, and not without cause, that he’s raised a warrior, not a king. And he respects you so—“

Arvis cut him off with a wave of his hand. “It’s all right. I know Lord Byron means well, and even that much is more than I’ve come to expect from our fellow rulers.” With a soft laugh, Arvis allowed himself his first sip of the evening. Sigurd simply furrowed his brows at the horizon.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Simply that your father’s honesty is rare.” Less simply, that it will likely lead to more problems than it solves. “If you learn one thing from him, let it be that.”

This close to the heir, it was impossible to ignore the warmth he exuded. It was so unlike the heat that coursed through Arvis’ own body, insatiable, oppressive. Sigurd, like his father, was an inviting presence; Arvis found himself wondering how much of this was Baldur’s lingering influence, and how much was Sigurd’s own charm. Whatever the case, it bode well for the lordling’s potential as a ruler; warranted, either way, closer observation.

“Lord Arvis?”

Rather than his voice, it was Sigurd’s bright blue eyes meeting his gaze which roused Arvis from thought. The Duke Velthomer shook his head.

“My apologies. I’ve had a terrible time focusing today, it seems.”

“Is there something on your mind? Though, I can’t imagine I’d be able to help with whatever weights you have to bear.”

“Please,” Arvis laughed, brushing a reassuring hand along the prince’s arm. “It’s nothing so dire. I was simply thinking… Lord Byron doesn’t have anything to worry about, as far as your succession is concerned. You’ve all the makings of a born leader.”

The red returned to the tips of Sigurd’s ears; Arvis was struck by the notion that this man couldn’t lie if he wanted to. His whole face betrayed him. “That’s a terribly high compliment, from one of your renown. I’m honoured.”

“Taking lessons from your father, flatterer?”

“Gods above, I wish. Maybe then I could get through an entire compliment without a glass of wine.” With a self-conscious smile, Sigurd downed his glass; Arvis realized, immediately, that it was uncharacteristically rude of himself not to bring a bottle out with them.

“If that’s the case, shall I fetch you another?”

Sigurd waved his hand. “It’s alright. I have to learn to function outside the academy at some time or another.”

“I’m happy to say you’re doing just fine so far.”

“Thank you kindly,” Sigurd said, with a smile. Arvis tipped some of his glass into Sigurd’s, and the pair sipped in silence for a moment, leaning against the guard rails, watching the sun slip behind the tips of the trees. Turning them pitch black along the horizon.

“You know,” Sigurd began again, “you have – and as I say it, it seems terribly rude, but I must know –you have a reputation as being quite—“

“Frightening?”

“Stern,” Sigurd corrected, with a soft laugh. “Everyone but my father seems to believe you’re one minor sleight away from setting fire to any given person, but I—“ Sigurd searched his face, then, as if looking for evidence that he was in the wrong, “—you seem perfectly kind, to me. Remarkably so, considering your circumstances.”

“Well,” Arvis gave his glass a thoughtful swirl, “thank you for giving me the chance.”

“To be honest, I very nearly didn’t.”

The Duke snorted across his glass, producing a low whistle. “I said your honesty was a virtue, and that was my mistake. You needn’t tell me everything.”

“In this instance, I believe I do!” Sigurd laughed, turning Arvis’ chin to face him. “When my father told me I would be joining him here tonight, I was absolutely beside myself with worry. What if I embarrassed him in front of his beloved Duke Velthomer? What if I invoked the Duke’s wrath? Worse yet, what if I made no impression upon you at all? I don’t think he would ever forgive me.” Downing his final sip – again –, Sigurd paused for a moment. “I wish I had known I had nothing to fear from you.”

“At least you know now,” Arvis replied.

“I believe I do,” Sigurd said, scarcely above a whisper. It occurred to Arvis now that the prince’s face was terribly close; at this distance, he could see the tricks the light played across Sigurd’s eyes. Could see the golden flecks scattered throughout deep blue. Couldn’t see that Sigurd was noticing the same in his. “I also wish,” a hesitant hand reached out, brushing crimson curls from the Duke’s face, tucking them behind his ear, “any one of them had told me how stunning you are.” Sigurd’s eyes drifted closed as he leaned in to what little space remained between them – and Arvis ducked out of the way, casting a pointed glance toward the balcony doors.

“Sigurd…”

“I… I’m so sorry, Lord Arvis,” Sigurd fumbled, stepping back. Staring resolutely at the floor. “I’ve misread you terribly. Please, excuse me—“ Shaken, the young lord moved to escape the situation, but was stopped with an open palm on his chest.

“You have much to learn,” Arvis smoothed his hand across Sigurd’s chest, eyes still on the doors, “about the workings of the court. If anyone had come through those doors just now, what would that have done to your reputation? To mine?” He his trailed down Sigurd’s chest, feather-light, slipping under the belt of his tunic. With a tug, Arvis moved toward the doors, leading them both back into the castle proper. “Come. We can discuss this elsewhere.”

 

*

 

Sigurd was hardly through the doors of the master bedroom before Arvis pulled the prince into him, smashing their lips together, teeth bruising lips, noses crushing into cheeks. Sigurd wasted no time knotting his fingers into silken locks, pulling them backward into the door, thumping Arvis’ head against the wood. “Sorry,” Sigurd mumbled into Arvis’ mouth, calloused fingers massaging the offended scalp. Arvis offered only a low moan in response, hands returning to the work they’d started on the balcony. “I meant what I said, you know,” Sigurd continued, between nips and kisses. “That you’re beautiful.” That Chalpy earnestness again. Arvis was beginning to see why it bothered Lombard so terribly.

“I wasn’t going to lose sleep over it, I assure you.”

“I just don’t want you to think that I—“

“Do this with all the boys?”

“That I said that to get on your good side.”

“I can’t imagine you’d think me so easily manipulated.”

“Mmm… I suppose not.” Sigurd pre-empted any further retort with a kiss pressed to Arvis’ lips, licking his way into the duke’s mouth. Deft fingers set to work between them, freeing clasps, unwrapping robes, popping buttons, pausing here and there to inspect the myriad scars marring (decorating, Arvis corrected himself, unable to find particular fault in the man’s physique) the warrior lord’s skin. The thought of blades skating over the other man’s flesh, whistling through the air, wicking blood to the ground, made him shudder; made the heat in his gut skip and swirl about.

He pulled his hands away.

“To the bed. Oils are in the top drawer of the nightstand.”

The moments which carried them from the doorframe to the bed were a haze, details lost in a flurry of cloth, of skin-on-burning-skin; of oiled fingers slipping inside, curling, stretching.

Slicked and laid bare was not a position _entirely_ unfamiliar to the duke; he had something of a history with this form of stress relief, and recent communications with General Aida had encouraged a lean toward male companionship. What was new, however, was the care Sigurd insisted upon taking with him.

“You’re aware we don’t have all night, yes?” Sigurd smiled down at him, running calloused hands along Arvis’ thighs. “We’ll be expected downstairs eventually.”

With a laugh, Sigurd pressed a kiss to the inside of the Duke’s thigh. “Of course, Lord Arvis. But, I have to ask… what happened to your manners from earlier?” _Gods._

“Pardon me?”

“We’re here so you can teach me how to behave, are we not? Give us an example, would you?”

Arvis wanted so badly to scowl, but that infectious warmth tickled at his lips again, tugging them upward. Born leader, indeed. “…Lord Sigurd,” he began, “if you would be so kind as to fuck me absolutely senseless…” and paused, allowing Sigurd a moment to bite back a laugh, “…I would be so very grateful.” At this, Sigurd leaned forward, greeting Arvis’ parted lips with his own.

“It would be my pleasure.” This was Arvis’ only warning before Sigurd snapped his hips, drawing a shout from his partner. “Now who’s being indiscreet, hmm?” Bracing his hands on Arvis’ thighs, Sigurd drew himself back, settling into a slow, careful rhythm.

“Gods, Sigurd…” Arvis groaned, eyes fluttering with each powerful thrust. Between the creaking bed, skin slapping against skin, and Arvis’ own imprecations to the gods, the Duke found himself rather thankful for the seclusion of the master bedroom.

“That good?”

“Yes,” Arvis sighed. He hadn’t necessarily wanted to give Sigurd the satisfaction of confirmation, but there it was. “Just… touch me.”

“No,” Sigurd replied simply, and Arvis hated himself for whimpering. “Remember, manners.”

“Please,” Arvis conceded, brow furrowing. Couldn’t bring himself to press the issue. “Please, Sigurd, touch me.”

With what could only be described as a giggle, Sigurd slipped a hand between them, curling his fingers around the Duke’s cock, squeezing, teasing. Arvis hissed at the sensation, hips stuttering into Sigurd’s grip. The heat coiling in his gut, pounding in his chest, spreading through his veins, threatened to immolate him completely – he felt, for a moment, he might actually die. Might not even mind.

“Arvis, I—I—“ Sigurd’s pace was faltering with his breaths, and Arvis pulled his face close, crushing their foreheads together, drinking in the heir’s shallow gasps.

“Don’t. Don’t you da—ahhh…” Eyes fluttering shut, bruised mouth agape, clawing uselessly at Sigurd’s scalp, the duke came, breathless, into his partner’s hand. In his haze, he was distantly aware of Sigurd chanting his name, covering his mouth with haphazard kisses, spilling inside, molten core cooling, calming.

Silence, but for ragged breaths and settling sheets.

After a time, Sigurd collected himself enough to pull out, collapsing on the bed at Arvis’ side. He threw an arm across Arvis’ chest, drawing the Duke close.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Arvis sighed, tracing his fingers along the arm pinning him to the mattress. “People will be wondering where we’ve gone, shortly.”

“I suppose,” Sigurd sighed. He turned his face to look at Arvis properly, a sleepy smile lighting his features. Even that slight an expression carved out the dimples in his cheeks, Arvis noticed. “Might we stay for just a little longer, though? A short rest?”

Arvis considered this, for a moment. Couldn’t help the soft smile that tickled at his lips. “Just a short rest. Because you asked so nicely.”


	5. arvisig: save a horse ride a ginger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> post-heroes au that i'm gonna explore in other stuff, maybe. arvis tops for once. kind of.

Every moment of the past several weeks had seemed a dream to him.

Manfroy was dead. So were Reptor and Lombard. Deirdre had ceded the throne to him, having absolutely no desire to rule herself. Sigurd yet lived, and had accepted the position as Arvis’ advisor. They hadn’t been able to recall everything of Askr; gaps remained in their knowledge of its circumstances, and other members of the army didn’t seem to remember it at all. But they had scraped enough together to pull through the war, and that was what mattered.

But it was all real.

As if to punctuate the revelation, Sigurd crossed the room to meet him on the bed, and gathered the Duke’s hair in his hands. Swept it to one side, so he could better reach the clasps that held the Emperor’s necklace in place. Presumably to the same end, Sigurd - his _esteemed advisor_ \- settled into his lap with a contented sigh.

“Do all your officers get this privilege, Your Majesty?” The necklace was already gone; Sigurd’s fingers were skating across the surface they’d exposed, moving to tug open his tunic.

“No,” he answered, flipping the clasp on Sigurd’s belt, “just the pretty ones.”

“You think I’m pretty?”

“Mmhmm,” Arvis responded, unable to suppress a giddy smile as he pressed a kiss to Sigurd’s lips. They parted against him; an invitation he happily obliged, coaxing out Sigurd’s tongue with his own, sucking at it once offered. It was then that Sigurd scooted forward in his lap, grinding them together, reminding him there were more pressing matters to attend to.

“So impatient,” he said, allowing himself to be eased backward onto the mattress. Sigurd had the upper hand all too often in these matters; since he’d been allowed it today, he was going to take full advantage. “Fetch the oils, would you?”

Sigurd hopped off the bed eagerly, kicking off his trousers as he did. When he returned with the phial, he yanked the Duke’s – no, _Emperor’s_ \- off, too, before reclaiming his spot atop him. That wasn’t quite Arvis’ plan, though, so he pulled him forward, til Sigurd hovered over his chest.

“When I’m ready, you’re going to prepare my hands, alright?

With a nod from Sigurd, Arvis took hold of his arousal, one hand guiding it to his lips, the other easing his hips forward, into his mouth.

Sigurd breached his lips with a soft sigh, his free hand coming down to hold the one that steadied his hips, the other still clutching the phial. Arvis welcomed the intrusion with a flattened tongue, drawn languidly over the head; he sucked him down, encouraging Sigurd’s advances with heady moans, fluttering lashes. When he had taken half of the prince’s length, he brushed his fingers at the phial of oil; with unsteady fingers, Sigurd removed the stopper, pouring the liquid into his own palm.

For whatever reason, Sigurd chose to coat his fingers as if he were jacking them off, gathering them in a bundle in his palm and stroking toward himself. Despite himself, Arvis choked out a laugh around the cock in his mouth; Sigurd laughed, too, a little more self-consciously, and kissed the Emperor’s knuckles before releasing the hand.

This, the Emperor thought, would be the fun part. Arvis took an admittedly harsh grip on Sigurd’s ass, pulling him forward to fuck his mouth, stretching him open so he could slip a slick digit inside.

The intrusion earned a stutter of Sigurd’s hips, a sharp gasp that faded into a sigh; unsatisfied, Arvis crooked his finger inside, made a show of moaning around the cock in his mouth. That always did it; Sigurd was a sucker for theatrics. Besides, it wasn’t entirely fake - seeing Sigurd come undone on top of him was driving him absolutely wild. If he were particularly desperate, he could probably get off on that image alone; Sigurd, face flushed, mouth agape and utterly unable to control the sounds that tumbled forth, the muscles in his stomach tensing and convulsing with every little thrust, every shock of pleasure that wracked through him.

So maybe it wasn’t theatrics. Maybe he was just that turned on.

It didn’t much matter; either way, every vibration, every little swallow brought Sigurd closer. And if he tried to pull out, like he always did, he would just fuck himself harder on the fingers inside him. It was a delightful little trap, Arvis thought, and Sigurd seemed to agree.

"Arvis,” Sigurd started, and his voice was so thick with lust the Emperor couldn’t help but moan around him, sweeping his tongue across whatever surface he could reach–

And that was it, for Sigurd. He came hard into the Emperor’s throat, and Arvis held him there, swallowing it down, sucking out what he could. “Fuck,” Sigurd whimpered, breathless, hips still twitching involuntarily, milking Arvis’ mouth for all it was worth.

When his movements finally began to slow - though his breaths still came ragged - Arvis pulled Sigurd off of him, clearing his throat.

“Hold yourself open,” Arvis rasped, and was a little surprised when Sigurd obeyed without a word. The prince lowered himself - through what Arvis imagined to be willpower alone, as his thighs were trembling like a newborn deer’s - and Arvis bucked up to meet him. Neither of them had voices left to shout anymore, so they simply gasped together; Sigurd drinking in air through sobs, hopelessly overstimulated; Arvis, choking out moans through his battered throat. Sigurd’s muscles were still convulsing through the aftershocks of his climax, and Arvis had been on the edge simply watching Sigurd - so it took only a few decisive thrusts before the Emperor plunged himself home, Sigurd’s hips slamming down to meet him, spilling inside with a strangled shout.

Unable to handle the contact any longer, Sigurd lifted himself off the Emperor, shaking all over, leaking obscenely. He held himself aloft only long enough to angle himself to the side, before collapsing next to Arvis, his shuddering breaths almost unbearably warm against his ear. Almost.

Yes, he thought, Sigurd was terribly pretty. Especially with the pink tint that now dusted his features.

He tucked Sigurd’s head under his chin, and the prince managed to muster the energy to wrap his arms around him. The embrace was dreadfully warm, terribly sticky, and Arvis suspected Sigurd had simply let the half-empty phial fall from his hand, because there was an unaccountable slickness to the sheets in some places. Really, a terribly uncomfortable situation all around.

He buried his face in Sigurd’s hair, earning a contented mumble.

Yes, terribly uncomfortable. But wonderfully real.


	6. arvisig: the most pwp possible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i'm watching mad men and the "pull my hair/ravish me/leave me for dead" bit really........................ stuck with me

Sigurd pulled Arvis’ face from his own, struggling to form his words. Arvis wasn’t interested in helping him find them, of course, instead focusing his efforts on pushing back against the hands that cupped his cheeks, desperately trying to close the gap Sigurd was creating. Barely cognizant of the soft whine that escaped his lips.

“A– Lord Arvis,” Sigurd managed, smoothing his hands through the Duke’s hair, steadying him with a firm grip on his head. Now that Arvis was largely still, moving only as much as his heaving breaths required, Sigurd inspected his face. The Duke’s eyes were glassy; though there was a veneer of desire atop his gaze, it seemed manufactured, as though it were hiding something else. His brows were thoroughly knit, and the soft downturn of his lips almost convinced Sigurd to acquiesce - almost. “I thought that – I thought you wanted to end this.”

“I know what I said,” Arvis said, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides, desperate for contact; more desperate not to impose more than he already was. “I just – just once more.”

If Sigurd had truly believed that this was truly what Arvis said - that it was just one last fling, just to get it out of his system, just to calm his nerves - the decision would have been easy. As had so often been the case in the past, Sigurd doubted they would have even made it to his couch, let alone the bed. He would have shoved the Duke backward into the chest of drawers, sat him atop it so he could settle in close, so close, taken his lower lip between his teeth to suck it plump, felt the air between them grow thick and hot as he –

But there was something more here. He knew that. “I can’t give you what you need right now.”

“I’m more than willing to settle for wants.”

Sigurd shuddered a sigh; though they were roughly equal in stature, something in Arvis’ hungry gaze made him feel so small. Almost fragile. As though the Duke could simply gobble him up. He licked his own lips; they suddenly felt quite dry. “And what is it that you want?”

Sensing Sigurd’s resolve crumbling, Arvis stepped into him again, raising his hands to hold Sigurd’s wrists. “I want you to pull my hair,” he began, guiding Sigurd’s hands down his chest, pushing back his jacket, sending it clattering to the floor. “I want you to ravish me,” he continued, carefully roaming Sigurd’s face with his eyes, coming to rest on the prince’s lips. “After that you can leave me for dead, if you like.” His lips grazed Sigurd’s, his body swaying gently under Sigurd’s familiar touch. “That’s all I want.”

“Well,” Sigured whispered, unbuckling the Duke’s tunic entirely without thought, “if that’s all.” His hands slipped up the back of the Duke’s tunic, fingers digging desperately into flesh the moment it found any. He let Arvis do away with his clothes, sighing softly into his mouth, melting into his touch. Sigurd couldn’t help but feel that this was all rather at odds with Arvis’ professed mission statement, but he wasn’t about to complain; not now that the Duke’s hands had snaked into his trousers, where they squeezed appreciatively along his growing erection.

“I’ve missed this,” Arvis sighed, freeing Sigurd’s cock from his smallclothes. For the first time since he stormed into the room, the Duke wore a smile, his eyes fluttering shut as he pressed his lips to Sigurd’s, stroking lazily all the while. Sigurd chose to believe Arvis was refering to _them_ \- though not ardently enough to chance a “me, too.” Still, he drew his hands down to the Duke’s hips, steering him gently toward the chest of drawers, the nearest surface. He tugged the Duke’s trousers down as far as he could before he had to step away, help the Duke kick them off – and his body screamed for the abandoned contact, expressed only as a full-body shudder. Was it sad, to belong so utterly to someone who didn’t truly want him? Was it pitiful? Perhaps. But he would loathe to waste any moment of this encounter – this last precious gift he’d been afforded – on self-pity; and so, with Arvis’ precious boots carefully lined up against the wall, Sigurd returned to him, kissed his way up his legs.  

“Not to sound ungrateful, but I—“ Sigurd interrupted the critique with a stifling kiss, sucking the words from Arvis’ mouth; broke away only to fumble with the dresser drawer, trying to retrieve a little glass bottle from within. “—I didn’t come here to be worshipped.”

“Then you shouldn’t have come to me,” Sigurd answered simply, pulling the stopper from the bottle, dousing his fingers.

The Duke leaned back on the dresser, a proud smile spreading across his lips. “And just when did you get so disobedient?” Despite his feigned distaste, he allowed Sigurd to push his thighs apart, press slick fingers inside him. He shivered head to toe, mouth falling open with a stuttering sigh. He didn’t usually react so honestly, Sigurd reflected, watching the Duke’s eyes squeeze shut, his brows knit together. He must have gone some time untouched, but why? Sigurd had seen how people of the court – entirely regardless of gender – had looked at him, and it seemed impossible that he would be at a loss for willing partners. And yet, here he was; so hopelessly touch-starved he would likely be embarrassed, were he with anyone else. He could feel it in the ease with which the Duke came undone; could see it in the way the Duke’s hand, which had long since abandoned Sigurd’s cock, scrabbled and twitched against his chest, searching for purchase, finding only smooth flesh to mark.

Nuzzling into Arvis’ forehead, mumbling a soft reassurance, Sigurd took his cock in hand, pushing into his partner’s entrance. The Duke was already trembling around him, arms wrapped tight around Sigurd’s shoulders, but Sigurd knew he had yet to make good on their initial agreement. He twisted his hand into the Duke’s hair – and he’d missed that, too, silky and strong as it was, made to be gripped – and pulled his head back, so he could look the Duke in the eyes.

Arvis’ lips parted to say something – probably in the vein of “hurry up”, or “get on with it” – but, when Sigurd snapped his hips forward, pulled harshly on the Duke’s hair, the only sound he managed was a strained shout. With his free hand, Sigurd dug his fingers into Arvis’ hip, pulling him closer to the edge of the dresser, thrusting harder, deeper; between the Duke’s nearly _whimpering_ cries and the way his legs wrapped around Sigurd’s waist, struggling for all the contact he could get, Sigurd couldn’t help the tinge of pride he felt. After all this time, he still remembered precisely how to please this man. Remembered what he wanted. What he needed.

And what he needed, of course, was for his hair to be wrenched down, exposing his neck for Sigurd to suck on, hungrily. Trying to imprint the Duke’s taste on his tongue, coax out even a few more sounds –

“Sigurd, I—“ the Duke panted into his ear, grabbing a fistful of his hair. “I need more—I need—“ Sigurd imagined that, were it not drowned out by creaking floors and labored breaths and rhythmic slapping of flesh on flesh, he could hear the Duke’s teeth grind together. Cutting off his next words. And yes, the Duke was something of a slut, and yes, he was probably only going to say “I need your cock” or “I need it harder” or something equally unbecoming. But Sigurd lets himself get carried away by the possibility that he meant to say _“I need you”,_ and the notion sends his hips into a frenzied stutter, pushing the Duke firmly over the edge, splattering cum between them, shouting meaningless obscenities. Sigurd follows soon after, finished off by the Duke’s seizing muscles, his achingly beautiful sobs as Sigurd spills inside him, already too sensitive, still wanting more. Knowing his body couldn’t handle it.

Sigurd eases Arvis off the dresser and onto shaky feet, so when he pulls himself free he doesn’t stain the furniture. Lifts the Duke off the floor, careful to take him by the thighs, the lower back, avoid his sensitive rear. The Duke scoffs.

“What happened to ‘leave me for dead’?”

“I’m afraid if I leave you, you really might,” Sigurd smiled, laying the Duke down on the bed. “Which would be terribly awkward for the staff, as this is _my_ home.”

“I suppose that’s true.” Arvis’ eyes drifted shut, undisturbed by Sigurd joining him on the bed. “Don’t get too comfortable; I won’t be staying long.”

“No need to rush,” Sigurd said, casting an arm around Arvis’ chest. “You never know how many ‘last time’s we have left.”

Arvis couldn’t quite help a laugh. “Sassing me again? You really want me to put my foot down, hmm?”

Sigurd tucked a stay lock of hair away from Arvis’ face, clearing his view. In a voice scarcely above a whisper, “No.” A terribly find smile crept across his lips. “No, of course not.”


	7. arvisig: the chokefic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> arvis is a freaky lad okay. he likes a good choke and there's nothing wrong with that

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy belated valentine's day i didn't proofread this whatsoever

“I’d like to give something a try.”

Sigurd withdrew from the Duke’s nape, looking him straight in the eyes; brushed away a stray lock of hair, clearing his view. He cupped the Duke’s jaw, softly, carefully, inspecting his features. Beautiful, of course. “And what might that be?”

Arvis bit his lip, an unfamiliar look settling on his face. Playful, in part, but nervous; neither expression was particularly common for the Duke, so Sigurd drank it in. “Well.” Let Arvis squirm under his gaze for a moment. “Allow me to clarify; this something with which I have… a modicum of experience.”

“This is usually the case, yes.”

“Hush. What I’m saying is that this is something I’m familiar with. What I’m less sure of, however, is how comfortable _you_ will be.”

Sigurd felt his gaze soften, a fond little sigh escaping his lips. “You’re beating around the bush, my love,” he said, and silently delighted in the way his words lit up in the Duke’s eyes. “And, not to ruin the mood entirely, but you weren’t this shy when you asked me to watch you get fucked by your little brigade.”

“That’s an entirely different issue.”

“And how is that?”

“Because,” Arvis began, holding Sigurd’s gaze as he took hold of the hand caressing his cheek, “seeing me used isn’t so completely opposed to your nature. You’re used to sharing, so long as I come back to you.” Arvis guided Sigurd’s hand to his lips, where he kissed each knuckle, softly, softly. “Isn’t that right?”

“I like to think there’s a limit to how much I’m expected to share,” Sigurd said. “But the principle is true. You do know me.”

“I do. Which is why,” Arvis pulled Sigurd’s hand from his lips, placed it gently against his neck. He swallowed slightly, Adam’s apple bobbing under Sigurd’s thumb. “…I know that you will have certain reservations about hurting me.”

Sigurd started, ever so slightly. “I– in what way?”

“Nothing serious,” Arvis said, stroking the hand still poised against his throat. Subtly, but sternly; applying pressure; holding it there. “I want you to – well, first, I want you to stop looking at me like that.”

Now that it had been pointed out, Sigurd could feel the crease in his brow, the tightness in his lips. Scrunched his face up, shook his features loose. “Sorry. Sorry. I…” he scooted forward to kneel over Arvis, taking his face in his free hand. Tracing little circles against the Duke’s cheek with his thumb. “I’m listening.”

“Thank you.” Arvis took hold of the hand against his cheek, pulling it, too, to his neck, crossing Sigurd’s thumbs under his chin. “This is what I would like to try.”

“What is – what is this doing?”

Arvis giggled under him, dark lashes fluttering to shield ruby-red eyes. How Sigurd loved those eyes, even with that cruel little twinkle they so often had... “Nothing, yet. I want you to give us a squeeze–” Sigurd obliged, albeit timidly, “–and lean into me.” The prince rocked forward on his knees, putting his weight behind his hands. Under the sudden pressure, Arvis gasped – a sound cut short as his airway closed, reduced to a rasping sigh. Sigurd felt the Duke stiffening against his thigh, insistent, needy – and relented.

Arvis sighed, running his fingers up Sigurd’s arms, still positioned dutifully at his throat. “Not for you, is it? That’s al–”

“No,” Sigurd said, with embarrassing haste. “No, I just. Is– was that okay?”

“It was a start,” Arvis said, patient smile spreading across his face. He licked his lips. “Do you think you could do that and fuck me?”

“Good gods,” Sigurd said, with a nervous laugh. “The mouth on you.”

“You can do something about that, you know.”

“Indeed I can.” Sigurd leaned down to capture Arvis’ lips, ease them apart. Taste him.

“Mmm–” the Duke broke the kiss with a touch to Sigurd’s cheek. “You’re avoiding the question.”

“Because I’m thinking.”

“Think aloud, my love.”

“What if – how will I know if you need me to stop? You won’t be able to tell me, I don’t imagine.”

“No. I’ll have to give you a little warning burn, hmm?” The fingers on Sigurd’s cheek had grown quite warm; still, he didn’t flinch.

“You wouldn’t.”

“No, I suppose I wouldn’t.” And cooled again, with a little smile. “I’ll give your arm a little tap.” He rapped his hand against Sigurd’s arm twice, thrice. “Like that. How does that sound?”

“Much better.” Sigurd pressed another kiss to Arvis’ lips, shorter now, chaste. “You’re sure you’ll be alright?”

“With you? How could I be any other way?”

Sigurd couldn’t manage a response to that beyond a contented sigh. Best to answer such a thing with action, he thought, shimmying backward, gesturing toward the night stand. “Then let’s give it a try. Could you pass me the oils?”

“In fact, I can do much more,” Arvis replied smartly, retrieving a vial from the drawer. “Since you’re being so generous tonight.” He took Sigurd’s half-hard cock in hand, and uncorked the vial with his teeth. With a practiced hand, he poured the fluid along, working it around the shaft as he went.

Sigurd shuddered through a sigh, melting into his partner’s skilled hand. Hands, now, as Arvis had tossed the empty vial into the bedspread and spat the cork on the floor, allowing him to devote both hands to Sigurd’s arousal.

“I… I think that’s good,” Sigurd managed. He wasn’t entirely ready to leave the Duke’s hands, but if he wanted to last…

“I understand,” Arvis said, eyes already half-lidded, glossy with arousal. “Feels better inside me, doesn’t it?”

“Again with the vulgarity,” Sigurd laughed, settling between the Duke’s legs. Pressing the head of his cock against his partner’s entrance, grounding himself as best he could.

“Do something about it.”

Sigurd snapped his hips, burying himself inside the Duke in one motion, and Arvis’ welcoming moan was cut short when strong hands clamped around his throat.

“Remember,” Sigurd said, easing his partner open with slow, shallow thrusts, “just tap my arm.”

Arvis nodded eagerly, running his hands up and down Sigurd’s arms, wrapping his legs around Sigurd’s waist. _Let’s get going_ , his eyes pleaded.

And Sigurd obliged. It wasn’t a hard rhythm to fall into; when he rocked forward, thrust in deep, he leaned forward on his hands. When he pulled back, the pressure was relinquished, and Arvis would gasp for air, lashes fluttering, eyes tearing beautifully. That was redundant, perhaps; he was beautiful regardless. So beautiful, and so desperate for him. What a dangerous combination.

Sigurd squeezed his hands, as he was told; wasn’t quite sure why, but was sure he liked the way it made the Duke jerk and sigh beneath him, so he continued. There was something tantalizing in that; the fact that Sigurd could so easily wrap his hands around Arvis’ entire life. That they fit so perfectly together.

Every roll of his hips renewed and released the pressure on Arvis’ throat, drawing from him a chorus of rasping cries, feeble little moans. Sigurd was surprised by how intoxicating he found these helpless noises, but it wasn’t so strange; the Duke was a powerful man, feared by so many, and here he was, a pitiful, mewling wreck beneath him. He had freely put his life in Sigurd’s hands, and no matter how glazed the Duke’s eyes became, Sigurd could see that trust reflected in them. Reflected in the way his hands, growing feeble now, fell from Sigurd’s arms, lay useless on the pillow; he wouldn’t need them. His legs still scrabbled to stay wrapped around the prince’s waist, encourage his thrusts, push him deeper, but these, too, were falling away.

“I–” Arvis managed to croak, before Sigurd shushed him, gently.

“I know. Save your breath. I know.” He could feel the Duke tightening around him, muscles fluttering. “You’re almost there.”

Sigurd was just as close; he could scarcely control the stuttering of his hips, now, driving into the Duke, desperate for friction, desperate for as much of Arvis as he could possibly touch at once–

“I’m coming,” Sigurd panted; Arvis nodded feebly, mouth dropping open uselessly. “I’m– gods, Arvis–”

Sigurd finished with a deep thrust, grinding his hips into the Duke, filling him, spilling out in rivulets as he fucked through his orgasm, soaking in the way Arvis clenched and gasped through his own climax. Together. Always together.

He released Arvis’ throat, allowing him a moment to wheeze before smothering him with a kiss.

“That was…”

“Good,” Arvis croaked; his arm twitched toward his neck as though to rub it, but couldn’t find the strength. “Very good.”

“Oh, darling, your voice…”

“‘Salright,” Arvis rasped, a weak but remarkably self-satisfied smile on his face. “'Sokay.”

What a pitiful sound. Sigurd peppered the Duke’s face, lips, cheeks, chin, and all, in apologetic kisses, encouraged by the ragged peals of laughter they produced. He came to rest with his lips flush to Arvis’ forehead, nose buried in his hair, breathing him in. Feeling Arvis’ own breath grow steady against his neck. Massaging along the Duke’s throat. “Is this going to bruise?”

“Probably. To be honest, given your trepidation, I wasn’t really expecting you to be so rough…”

“I’m so sorry, I–”

Arvis interrupted the apology with a hand wound firmly into his hair, pulling him into a harsh kiss. Sucking back the air he’d been deprived of. “Wasn’t a complaint.”

“You… hah.” Sigurd ran a hand through Arvis’ hair. “Devious little thing.”

“Mmm.”

The Duke’s hands had dropped to the pillow again, his eyes growing hazy. He wasn’t normally one to drift off so soon, but Sigurd supposed this was a special circumstance. “I’ll get us cleaned up.” Sigurd moved to push himself off the bed, but was stopped by a sudden grip on his wrist.

“No,” Arvis sighed, “it can wait. Stay with me.”

“It will only take a moment. I’ll be right–”

“Please.”

There was something stern in his voice, then, and it caught Sigurd off guard. The coy smile had faded from his lips, and what remained was a somber expression utterly at odds with the flush on his cheeks, the squeaking rasp in his voice. Unsure what to make of it, Sigurd acquiesced. “Alright,” he sighed, curling up against the Duke’s side, nuzzling under his chin. “Just for a little while.”

“That’s all I need.”

This close, Sigurd could feel the Duke’s heartbeat slow, his muscles relax. He was unsure, suddenly, if he’d be able to peel himself away before Arvis fell asleep. Found he didn’t really want to.


End file.
